


Gotham: Paradise Lost - Act I: A Golden Crusade

by TumblrTheRogue



Series: Gotham: Paradise Lost [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 01:11:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19262950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TumblrTheRogue/pseuds/TumblrTheRogue
Summary: AU story. Follow the Batfamily and co. as they fight to save Gotham and the world. Rated (M) for violence, language, and sexual content. The Chapters for Act I: A Golden Crusade are now being published. POV Characters: Bruce Wayne; James Gordon; Selina Kyle; Alfred Pennyworth; Harvey Dent; Dick Grayson.





	1. Prologue

 

** Prologue – January 2nd, 2002 **

     “I dunno about this one, fellas,” Joe Chill told his crew. His hands shivered ever so slightly as he loaded his pistol. It wasn’t visible to the others, but it made it significantly harder for him to slip the magazine into the gun.

     “A contract’s a contract, and the boss’ll have our heads if we fuck this up,” Johnnie replied, pulling the red bandana over the lower half of his face. The other man, Louis, nodded along as he put up a bandana of his own. _I guess that’s my answer._ Joe told himself. _Just do it for Hailey. If you can do one thing right in your life, help her._

     The van the gang loaned to them sported fresh blue paint and newly minted plates. It was virtually unrecognizable from the vehicle stolen from that poor sap two weeks ago. Joe turned up the dial on the car radio, hoping to calm down and drown out his anxiety.

     “Thanks, Tom. We begin our weather broadcast tonight with an update from the national weather service. A winter weather advisory has been placed over the counties of –“

     Johnnie turned the channel, shifting between his favorite Jazz station and that hip hop program on the air, who he _swore_ he didn’t find attractive. Johnnie’s taste was as grating to Joe as the rest of his personality. His presence alone made his heart pick up pace, and the fact he was driving did nothing to calm Joe down. His mind lasered in on anything it could focus on. _Does he have to take that stupid bobble head with him on every job we pull?_

     Joe sighed and palmed his face. The bumpy roads made his stomach lurch, and for an instant he almost got sick in his seat. His feeling improved, albeit only slightly, when they got on the bridge. Arkham Asylum, once a proud and pristine building, full of gothic splendor, now stood darkened and stained atop its rock in the middle of the bay. The bridge connecting it to the mainland would be closed soon, but the three men ventured on in spite of it all.

As they neared their destination, Joe’s leg bumped against the duffel bag below him. _Shit. Please, God, if you have any love left for me, don’t let a damn duffel bag fuck this for me._ Chill pulled up the pant sleeve of his washed-out jeans. His hands rechecked the ankle bracelet, making sure that annoying red light was off like it was supposed to be – like _they_ promised it would be. He let out a sigh as his fears were dissipated.

Looking back up over the dashboard, the granite gargoyles’ cold eyes peered directly into Joe’s soul. Their sneering faces watched over the grounds, as if in warning to those who might do wrong there.

Despite their warning, the van parked on the edge of the main parking lot. The men unbuckled their seatbelts, zipped up their duffel bags, and silenced their weapons. Joe made sure to shut his door slowly, trying his hardest not to let a sound slip from the van. Joe’s reflection in the window scolded him, sorrow-filled eyes dropping and pleading for him to turn around and forget this whole mess. His leg, seemingly acting of its own volition, quaked and quivered as it stepped back, right into Louis.

“Going somewhere, Joey?”

“No, nope. Not at all.”

Beads of sweat ran down his temple as he felt the barrel of Louis’ gun press into the small of his back. Accepting his fate, Joe stepped forward around the van. Pulling his own scarlet bandanna over his face to match his compatriots. The three marauders posted themselves inside an aging security booth, long ago abandoned but still standing. Joe noticed the year 1979 printed on the ledger’s freshest page as he got out his matte binoculars out of the bag. Through the lenses, the three men sat and waited as the snow began its slow-release drip from the domineering clouds, obscuring the last gasps of the night’s light.

Ancient and unyielding, the main doors to the Asylum creaked open as the thin man left the complex. As his shoes echoed off the stone, he turned and waved back to an unseen colleague. The lab coat clad figure stood out against the asphalt void of the parking lot. His figure hunched as he doubled over, hugging and holding himself, forging a shield against the bitter cold gusts crescendoing with an increasing fury.

His keys jingled and clattered against the pavement, falling from the scientist’s hands, now cupped behind his head. The gun Louis pointed behind his head reflected no light, it was an extension of his arm, clad in black and steady with an iron determination. Scientists certainly weren’t cut out for this kinda pressure, or at least, that’s what Joe always thought. Much to his surprise, the good doctor calmly stopped in his tracks immediately, stiff and still as a brick wall. His eyes peered down at the ticking wristwatch and he let out a sigh. Hot air bellowing like smoke from his lungs, Dr. Johnathan Crane stood in the parking lot, not a man like his supposed captors, but or a basilisk clad in an off-white lab coat.

“Oh bother. Here we go again,” Crane tried to turn to face his assailants, but before Joe could do anything Johnnie’s pistol slammed down into his temple. The scarlet drops blemished his porcelain skin as he lay unconscious in the snowy lot. His body dragged along the snow towards the van, leaving behind twisted and perverted snow angels – the kind only some terrifying monster could create intentionally.

But Crane wasn’t being intentional. He was just some schmuck who put rubber stamps on the loonies for the feds and the city. Who was he in comparison to the hardened criminals abducting him? He was no veteran, but a greenhorn in the underworld – that’s the impression Joe got from his looks at least. His body slumped into the back of the van any other man’s would have. All 165 pounds of his lanky ass never would’ve made it on the streets. That huge brain of his was the only thing keeping Mr. Crane, Dr. Crane, from being like all the others crushed under the heel of the mob. _I guess being an “egghead” is better than being dead._

The van stopped on the outskirts of town, in the parking lot of a washed-out strip mall closer to the Delaware border than Downtown Gotham City. Joe zipped up the empty duffel bag, the nap sack and duct tape both used already on their captive.

As the psychologist started to stir, Johnnie cut the engine while Louis ripped off the potato sack they used for a mask. He shook Crane awake violently, and the words fell out of his mouth, smooth as stone and cool as ice. “Look here, man. All ya gotta do is just sign a few of your little doctor’s notes and say what Mr. Carmine wants you to on the stand,” he punctuated the point by tearing off the duct tape which covered his withering lips. Though crane was young, his features clashed and mixed in a way where it was hard to tell how old he was, or much else about him for that matter.

His eyes widened with spite as he adjusted to the bright light shone in his face. “Look here, _gentlemen._ You can tell good Mr. Carmine that if he still wants my help, he can come here personally and apologize for this naked aggression,” Crane’s words slithered out of his mouth. “I knew he was getting desperate but _come on._ This is ridic – “ _SMACK._

The handprint burned into his face and earned his silence for a moment until he straightened his back again. His dignity at least partially reclaimed. He cleared his throat, and his words came clean and free of the vinegar they’d just had moments before.

“Well, I can see you three are clearly not going to take no for an answer,” he sighed again, but this time his lips turned into the faintest hint of a smile. “That’s quite fine. Really. I assume you have the papers with you right now,” it wasn’t actually a question, but Joe hardly could tell the difference with the way he spoke.

“Well, we – “

“What am I saying, of course you do. How would the threat work if I couldn’t sign them right now, what with all those dangerous weapons trained on me. Fine. _Fine._ Undo these restraints around my arms and I’ll sign whatever you need me to, and with any luck the four of us will never see each other again,” Crane sat up further, all emotion drained from his face, though he did bob and bounce slightly.

“There, done,” Johnnie’s serrated knife made quick work of the makeshift handcuffs binding their prisoner.

“Guys, we’re seriously just gonna untie him like that? I don’t think – “ Joe’s protests were cut off before he could finish.

“Just shut up and get Mr. Carmine’s papers before you say anything else stupid,” Johnnie pointed his gun suggestively in Joe’s direction suggestively. “ _Now, please.”_

Joe knew when he heard a stupid idea. He knew when to talk back, and this was one of those times. But Joe also knew when it would get him shot in the head, most likely at least. This was also one of those times. So, grumbling as he would, Joe fetched the papers like a good lackey and handed them personally to Dr. Crane, who received him with that same disappearing look of pure glee.

Before he knew what was happening, Joe’s skin was pricked with Crane’s pen, and the world melted around him. Crane’s face churned and burned away to a demonic caricature of himself, or of the stereotypical image of the mad scientist: graying hair; mad eyes; a rabid thirst with a foaming mouth and a questionable suite of scientific instruments and malicious chemicals.

His fellow gangsters turned into something even more terrifying. Johnnie grew a good six inches in height and put on a hundred pounds of muscle. His bandana morphed into a mask of blood across the now stern features of his face. A mustache sprouted, and his hair became clean cut and old-fashioned. The rags he wore turned to riches, to a black-tie suit. Louis’ frame shrunk into the graceful form befitting an opera singer, and the garb he wore was to match. His long golden chain shifted into a magnificent set of pearly globes around his crane of a neck, and just like Johnnie, his bandanna shifted to blood. The most terrifying sight imaginable stood before him: Thomas and Martha Wayne, undead and bloodied.      

     “WHAT?! I KILLED YOU! HOW? GET AWAY FROM ME!” Joe’s voice rang for blocks around them, echoing off building and pavement alike amidst the dead streets. “Calm down, man,” they replied. The words were lost on him. He was too far gone to tell reality from fiction, to tell that his “turned off” probationary anklet was pulsing on his leg, fast as his heartbeat. This exact thought had deprived him of sleep for decades, and now it was his judgement day. Surely these spirits had come to drag him to his own corner of whatever circle of hell God had condemned him to, but Joe refused to go without a fight.

     He cocked his pistol, newer and flashier than that old beat up revolver he used to kill the Waynes previously, but still just as good at shooting people. The action clicked, and with a roar he fired his entire clip into the eldritch horrors standing in his sight.

          “I’M SORRY! I’M SO SO SO SORRY! I’M SORRYI’MSORRYI’MSORRY!” The horrors before him collapsed, fresh wounds to join those he’d made all those years ago. Joe screamed to the sky, grasping his throbbing head with a grotesque hand. He heard a laughter that sent a chill shaking through his body, from his eyes popping to his tingling spine, the malevolent spirit burrowed deep within his soul and delighted in his terror.

     Words, unheard to Joe, commanded him to put his hands behind his head and put his gun on the floor. Shouting, flashing lights of scarlet and azure, all of it didn’t register; the police didn’t scare him. For a moment, he heard Hailey sobbing, and tears of his own ran down his face to join her. A single shot rang out in the night, from a gun Joe never even knew was there. He collapsed, rag dolled, and rolled onto the uncaring ground as the black sky overhead came back into focus. Joe’s mind was his again, but it was fading fast into shock.

     Joe looked down. The blood was on his hands now – no, not now, not just now. His hands had been stained for years. No amount of good works could undo what he’d done, and no amount of crime could undo what he did to Hailey, to his daughter. All those years, his hands were stained, and the stains wouldn’t, couldn’t come out. As Joe lie there, bleeding on the pavement next to his bloody victims, he saw the truth for the first time in his life. For all his mistakes, for all his actions, he couldn’t take back the past. And like so many before him, Joe Chill realized the lessons he was supposed to learn all too late. _Hailey,_ he thought as the sirens split his head open. _I’m sorry._

 


	2. Bruce I

** Bruce – January 15, 2002 **

“Gotham City is on its deathbed,” said the tall, dark man as the reporter steadied her mic in front of him. Time abroad had made him rough and unrefined. His words rang harsh, and the people of the city would take no comfort in the words of a formerly absentee billionaire. _How dare him, HIM of all people, talk about OUR city like a damn hellhole._ Gotham’s citizens were fiercely loyal to her, and their loyalty quickly turned to aggression, disgust; they defended their city out of love and out of fear – love for their home and fear for the truth of what it was becoming.

     The people would demand answers from their prodigal son, and the reporters descended upon him, a herd of sharks circling around their prey. They smelled blood in the water. If the man had spent even more time abroad, perhaps they would’ve been able to go in for the kill. But, for however long he had been away, no matter how rough around the edges he appeared, Bruce Wayne still knew Gotham.

He breathed with the city, he stood as tall as Wayne Tower and the other skyscrapers, and his blood flowed through him as the cars did on the streets and as the rivers did into the harbor. As the years had been harsh to Bruce, so too had they not been kind to Gotham. The city was a granite, marble, and steel paradise; yet the city was a hellscape of bones, concrete, and blood. Shining surfaces concealed the rotting core. Bruce’s rough kempt exterior stained his noble image. His disappearance had stirred up wild fantasies throughout the populace, splintering and shattering public opinion on him. The times were hard, and people were only unified by their city.

They agreed only on the fact that they disagreed with each other.

“Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne!” The reporters clamored around him with mics for follow up questions. Every network in the country wanted in on this story, and every reporter wanted to be the one to tell it. They squawked and cawed, vultures circling around their target. Bruce had a respect for the press, but the paparazzi got under his skin in a way he knew it shouldn’t have. He would’ve liked nothing more than to quietly go back to his manor, shave, and sleep in a comfortable bed – his bed. But, the disciplined voice in his head told him to put those desires aside, and reminded him of his responsibilities, his plan. Public image was, whether he liked it or not, part of that plan.

So, Bruce’s eyes skillfully looked through the reporters for clues about who they were. On the plane he had spent some of the 15-hour trip refamiliarizing himself with the city, and a large part of that was the media. He looked through the snow-covered huddle and recognized two figures out of the dozen plus around him. The two of them could scarcely be older than 30. On the left stood a gaunt man with glasses only smaller than his nose. He had an old-fashioned haircut and a freshly forged career, he asserted his presence, but spoke respectfully and calmly rather than the pestering of his peers. The mint green and purple lapel pin on his jacket was emblazoned with the logo of Gotham News 9. Clean and proper, his crisp blue suit went well with the brown trench coat, hiding all of his furious note pads. The only other notable part of his appearance was the Gotham State University tie clip. His appearance screamed that he was a local man, born and raised.

Standing on his right was a graceful, slender woman whose skin and hair were as light as her demeanor. Her jet-black pea coat, however, stood in contrast to her bright features. Paired with the bubbly attitude was a hunger, a relentless drive. She was diligent, but ruthless in the pursuit of that truth. Sharp canines stood among her pearl-white teeth, fitting for her dogged methods. _Jack Ryder, or Vicki Vale?_  Bruce flipped a coin in his head, arbitrarily deciding between the two reporters who intrigued him the most. _Eenie, meenie, minie, mo._

“Yes, Ms. Vale.”

“Mr. Wayne! Vicki Vale, Gotham News Network. You’ve been gone for quite some time. In your absence, some began to question if you were even alive anymore. Why did you leave, and where did you go?”

“I left to see all that this world had to offer. After High School and touring colleges, I decided that I needed to go out and really _see_ the world.” Bruce smiled and began to point to another reporter, when Vale cut him off with a follow-up question, unsatisfied with the answer he gave her.

“But, where did you go specifically?”

“Lots of places. Everything from Tokyo to the Congo to China.”

“Why did you visit the places you did?” A reporter with an orange tie chimed in.

“I visited the same countries my company operates in. I wanted a better sense of my impact on the world. A Kurdish sheep farmer lives a very different life to a businessman in Hong Kong.”

“Why have you returned now?” Asked the curly-haired woman two rows back.

“It’s simple, really. I was homesick. Gotham’s hurting, and I want to help.” Bruce grinned, his white smile shining amidst the stubble and grime.

“And how do you plan to do that?” Ms. Vale’s green eyes filled with fire as they locked with Mr. Wayne’s. _Always asking the hard questions._ Bruce mused to himself. “How can you help our city when you’ve been absent for _twelve years_?”

“Well, I do have pla – “

“Mr. Wayne has had a long plane ride, and he is very tired, we ask for no further questions at this time.” Richard Tackett, current head of the Board of Wayne Enterprises stepped in front of the camera, his reflection distorted in his large aviator glasses. A shadow peered over his face from outstretched hand, blocking the cameras and lights surrounding him. With a firm hand Wayne security rushed Bruce off the podium towards the waiting Limo. Bruce could see Alfred, his foster father and lifelong mentor, fight with Tackett over his action. The sounds of outrage followed him, as reporters washed over the pod of security agents. Bruce shook off the hands of the security guards as they delivered him to the limo, door open and chauffeur waiting.

“Who do you think you are, grabbing me like that?” Bruce said, anger audible in his voice. He was met with stoicism from the men, until one of them blankly stated, “we follow Mr. Tackett’s orders, sir.” Bruce rubbed his temple and sighed at the men doing their jobs, stepping towards the limo. As he turned, a hand reached through the wall of security guards, and Vicki Vale cried out behind him.

“Mr. Wayne, would you care to comment on the upcoming Joe Chill Trial?” She was shoved back as she finished her sentence, but Bruce’s interest had already been peaked. He turned toward her, and with a dry stare and a steely tone replied “No.” And with that, Bruce stepped into the limo and firmly closed the door, exhausted from the day’s events. He slumped into his seat and palmed his face. The chauffer was exactly as quiet as Bruce liked it, and he was able to steal a few precious moments of sleep.

Bruce seldom remembered his dreams, but the closer he got to Gotham, to where _they_ were killed, the more he found himself enthralled in nightmares. If he was lucky, he might remember the odd good dream; he wasn’t so lucky in the limo. Shadowy, murky terrors, tall and monstrous swarmed around him. Bright red eyes with long sharp teeth, leathery wings, and brutal claws flew around him. Endless black swallowed his body, snuffing out all light.

As quickly as they came, they left in a shrieking chorus. He was running now, polished white boulders falling above and around him. He came to a stop, nearly falling into a scarlet pool – how deep it was, he didn’t know. Thunder crashed overhead; a chill ran up Bruce’s spine, huddled and hunched over as a brass meteor shattered the sky – aiming right at him. He saw his reflection in the pool on the paved floor. Blood was on his hands while the sky fell, and the last thing he focused on was that same old rotten street sign: West 42nd Street and Gatz Avenue; Crime Alley haunted Bruce’s memories, and invaded his sleep ever since that cold April night. As his vision faded to black, he heard the audible thuds of two giants crashing onto the ground, and a voice – like a broken record after all these years. Heavy, with lungs drowning in blood, the voice strained and cracked in pain. _“Bruce… Bruce, don’t be afraid. We love… you.”_ Thomas Wayne’s promise was punctuated with a cough and a wheeze, and the world fell silent, dark, and broken.

Bruce awoke suddenly in the car, his clothes sticking to him with cold sweat. The long car pulled through the last set of gates, cast iron and older than any living man. Time wasn’t kind, and even with the diligent efforts of Alfred Pennyworth some of the grounds were showing their age. The manor was pristine, but the greenhouse and some of the outer buildings looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. They hadn’t, of course. One man could only do so much, even when that man was as talented and diligent as Alfred.

The limo pulled up in the roundabout around the fountain. Bruce waited half a second for the door to be opened for him, the chauffer dutifully standing at attention. He stepped out of the car, a mere five feet from the ancient stairs. Atop those stairs were the great double doors, dark wood and glass. They seemed so tall and splendid when he was a child. Now, they certainly were large, but they had lost their magic. Every good memory the manor reminded Bruce of was muted and dull. It all seemed hollow to him.

“I must confess, dear Master Bruce, that the Manor has felt quite empty for all of these years in your absence. The grand hall and dozens of rooms are quite splendid, provided you have the company to share them with. I am glad to see you back where you belong.” The long, thin frame of Alfred Pennyworth appeared out of Bruce’s peripheral vision. His prim and proper speech was matched with impeccable dress – Alfred wore the finest linen suit. The pinstripes served to make him seem even thinner, and his black bow tie was the centerpiece, bridging the dark tones of the suit with the thinning streaks of hair, increasingly losing their once black hue, graying with each passing year. A deep smile crossed his tall face, and Bruce felt at ease for the first time in he didn’t know how long. He looked at him and returned the smile. “It’s good to be back, and it feels better to see you again, old friend,” he said, grabbing Alfred’s outstretched hand and pulling him close, embracing him in a hug.

Their shoes made hard clacking sounds as they went up the main staircase, echoing throughout the mansion’s great hall and connecting corridors. It had been a cloudy and cold winter day when he landed, but through the great glass windows stabbed daggers of sunlight, illuminating the dark woods and exquisite paintings hanging above them. The two men bound for the master’s chambers. Bruce’s mind wandered as they grew nearer to the carved double doors. _It doesn’t feel right to sleep here, it’s my parents’ room no matter what Alfred says._

Seemingly reading his mind, Alfred chimed in. “Master Bruce… I know that staying in this room must feel strange for you, but I assure you, Thomas – your father would want you to. This is Wayne Manor, and it befits the last Wayne to treat it as such.” Bruce grunted, almost beginning to protest when Alfred unlocked the doors and swept them open, revealing the freshly cleaned room. The air itself brought a nostalgia to Bruce’s nostrils, evoking yet even more memories. _This is a stethoscope, Bruce, and doctors use it for lots of things. See, listen._ He could still hear his father’s words in his head, but they grew fainter with each passing year. Bruce fell back to reality when Alfred turned to him with a look Bruce couldn’t quite decipher. “Master Bruce, is everything alright? Last time we had this discussion we argued for over an hour.”

“Yes, Alfred, thank you. I’m fine. I was just lost in my train of thought.”

“Of course, Master Bruce. I shall leave you here to settle in. Dinner shall be served at six o’clock sharp.”

“Alfred, wait,” Bruce said, arm outstretched toward him.

“Yes, Master Bruce?”

“Thank you, for everything.”

“I only did my duty, sir. It’s what any professional would have done in my situation.”

“No, Alfred. You did much more than that for me. And I can never repay you,” Bruce said with a warm smile.

“Well, you _could_ reconsider this crusade you have planned,” the Butler jested.

“I can’t do that, old friend. This city needs saving. I have to help.”

“Ah well, I supposed you would say that. I guess I’ll just have to enjoy the other perks of the job.”

“The constant companionship?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of the Bentley, and the private jets,” this time it was Alfred’s turn to smile, grinning from ear to ear at his sarcastic quip.

“Alfred, I’m hurt,” Bruce said, clutching his heart in mockery.

“Come now, Master Bruce, how do you expect to survive against those madmen if you can’t even survive an old man’s bloody jokes?”

“I think I’ll manage, old friend.”

“Right bloody proper you will, sir.”

They exchanged smiles and Alfred left down the stairs, rushing to finish some last-minute responsibilities for the day. Bruce went into his parents – _his room._ He set down the duffel bag that contained all that was left of the last twelve years. Clothes, passports, tools, and a small handful of mementos from various countries. After the doors were closed, his old, musty clothing came off piece by piece. His shirt flew across the room, and his pants flopped onto the bed. His boots clattered on the floor, and the tile in the master bathroom was refreshingly cold on his feet. The reflection in the mirror was haggard and rugged. His features had sharpened while he was away – the last few years in particular were hard on him. Scars crisscrossed his torso, back, legs, and arms. A web of past pains and lessons learned was permanently etched all over his skin. Down to his bones, he had been schooled, broken, and put back together again.

As always, his bright blue eyes were strong and steady, a constant in his appearance everywhere he went. But surrounding them, his face was different. Hollow and concaved, his face was thin. Bruce’s prominent cheekbones were like mountains looming over their valleys, and his lips seemed larger than normal, almost too large. Dust and dirt still clung to his skin, and his hair was caked with mud and blood and bone. Thankfully, the clumps that bound his locks had been vague, and the reporters and cameras didn’t pick up the blood and bone under the mud. All three were bound together into matts in the back of his long black hair.

He took out an electric razor from the drawer and some scissors and cut through the jungle that had grown on his head. Underneath the mess of hair was a series of new cuts, with any luck they wouldn’t join the scores of other scars. Soap and water scrubbed off the last patches of dirt. Years of shadowy activity hadn’t fazed Bruce as much as the events of the last year. It felt good on his skin to have the last remnants of that train wreck wash away. He was clean, and it almost looked like the same old Bruce that everyone had always known. Cold steel pressed against his neck as he shaved off the last of his beard. His hand reached out, grasping behind him until he found the warm towel and brought it to his face, wiping away all that remained. He looked back up one more time, and even though he was thin and sharp, it was unmistakably Bruce Wayne he was looking at in the mirror. The familiar sight brought a smile to his face, and he swept up and disposed of the mess of hair and grime he’d made.

Before he knew it, the hours had passed, and the dinner bell rang. Bruce came down refreshed and feeling like a new man, feeling like Bruce Wayne again. _A shower and a shave do wonders._ The great table was set with prime ribeye with garlic smashed potatoes, roasted green beans with a truffle sauce, and freshly baked breads. He cut into it hungrily and dug in, at the head of the table opposite Alfred. Before he could formally thank Alfred, the phone rang. The aging butler dutifully got up from the table before Bruce could protest, his mouth full of meat and potatoes, and he answered the phone out of full earshot of the dining room.

He came back with the same blank expression he often did when delivering a message. “Master Bruce, the Board of Directors for Wayne Enterprises called. They send their warmest regards for your return to the city and are eager for you to return to the company as well. They would like to meet with you sometime next week, I will handle the appointment for you, of course.”

“Why would they call this late?”

“My best guess is to avoid Director Tackett. While you were abroad, after your excursions at those various universities, he tried to have you legally declared dead. Before he could, your phone call from Japan in 2000 formally put a stop to that.”

“He’s not happy with my return.”

“Quite so, I’m afraid.”

“That won’t do at all,” Bruce said, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

The rest of their dinner was eaten in near total silence.

 


	3. Jim I

__

** Jim – January 18th, 2002 **

Once again, Jim’s body ached and throbbed. Each step strained his muscles. Each second without sleep added more weight to his eyelids. Something deep in his soul yearned for the sweet relief, screaming for the flavor of one more good cigarette. Barbara was getting on him about the habit lately, but at that moment he couldn’t give less of a damn. His mind thought of his family, or Bab’s smile and the laughter of Barb and young JJ, but the one thing he certainly didn’t miss was his wife nagging.

The smell of the moving truck’s fumes still clung to his mind, even though it was days past. Duty had called Jim to stay without his family. _Duty, huh? What a load of horse shit. I suppose this is what I get for clinging to the concept._ With Babs taking the car, it was either the train or a plane. James Gordon chose the cheaper option, but he wished he hadn’t been such a penny pincher. _The train’s no way to travel._ He thought, peering out at the approaching station through the finger-print covered window.

As he stepped on the platform, luggage in hand, he reached into his brown trench coat’s breast pocket and pulled out his flip lighter. Its nickel plating felt cold in his hands, and the glistening silver was outshone when its flames erupted. With a click, his crisp white cigarette was lit. Its edges became embers, smoke filling his lungs with a friendly warmth.

The fire was a nice contrast to the winter chill of Gotham. A gust of wind nearly blew his damn hat off as he walked the platform. As he walked down the stairs his footsteps echoed throughout the station, devoid of hardly any other sources of noise. An awful stench assaulted Jim’s nostril, whatever it came from only God knew. He found the aging glass exit doors and with a push was out on the streets of Gotham for the first time in decades.

Jim’s bones ached with every inch of movement as he sat down on a rusted out blue bench at the closest bus stop. The thin paper of the map in his hands nicked Jim’s thumb, drawing the faintest drop of blood. _Not the first time I’ve bled here, won’t be the last._ His eyes scoured the page, dotting from street to street. _South Hampton’s even worse than I remember. Last time I was here, there was only one crack dealer and prostitute on that street corner._ He triple-checked that his gun was in fact still in its holster, always fastened around his chest and practically burning a hole through his coat. _Can never be too careful._

The streets before him were sparse; hardly a single car, other than the occasional low rider passed him. After his watch made half a full rotation, Gordon finally managed to flag down a cab. _Damn busses – always late._ The trunk closed with a thud, and he snuffed out his fifth cigarette on the wet pavement with his boot before stepping into the back of the cab.

Chicago was by no means an easy city, but it had been the Gordons’ home for years. Jim hated moving, he hated doing that to the kids, but he hardly had a choice. The job offer was too good to pass up, and for all its faults, Gotham was a city on the rise. At least, that’s what he’d been told. He didn’t buy a single word, but Gotham had good schools and a good life in some neighborhoods. The increase in rank and pay was a plus too. Chicago was in the past, and now, Gotham was his future.

The cabbie didn’t turn to face Jim. He reset the meter, smacking the console and adjusting the knobs of the radio as he entered the car. Tiny, worn out eyes glanced at him through the rearview mirror. The seats smelled of sweat and blood, with a hint of something earthy. An old air freshener swung in the mirror lazily. After Jim got settled in the back, the cabbie finally spoke. “Where to?” He asked, his voice like broken glass. “Morris Ave and 53rd,” Jim replied, cigarette between his lips and lighter in his hands. He wondered if the driver would say anything about it, but before he could finish his thought the gruff man pulled out a smoke of his own.

“Ya gotta light?”

“Of course,” Jim said, loaning another lonely soul a bit of warmth for the second time that day. Jim’s mind went to his new home, to Babs and the kids and to getting a good night’s rest for the first time in weeks. Images of a clean kitchen and boxes touching the ceiling filled his head. Jim spent the rest of the ride in silence, his mind wandering and his eyes desperately trying to stay open. Many neon signs dotted the buildings up and down the street, painting his face with brilliant color. Bright hues of blue and soft shades of pink clashed with the faint yellow aura clinging to his features. Jim’s fiery red hair and moustache were swallowed hole by the sea of color.

The rainbow of lights from the stores on the street slowly faded until all that remained were the dull brass hues of the streetlights dotted throughout the jungle of apartment buildings. Street after street passed by as a blur to Jim. One moment, he was staring lazily at each drop of rain that hit his car window; the next moment, he was handed his mahogany suitcase with a nod. After the cab faded around the corner, Jim stood alone in the rain, savoring the last huff of menthol before opening the door.

 _1462 Morris, 2A. This is the place._  

The door to the apartment creaked open in exactly the kind of way Jim wanted to avoid. _Damn thing. I better oil it soon._ Gordon felt a knot in his stomach at the thought of waking his wife, let alone the kids. _Surely, she’s had it rough enough the past week alone_. He hated having to stay in Chicago as long as he did. He hated the move. He hated how much everything seemed to be getting to him, the stress of it all.

Jim took off his trench coat, spattered with rain, and hang it alongside his fedora on the coat rack. He tossed his dirty black boots on the floor, and carefully set down his suitcase next to the staircase before walking further inside his new two-story apartment.

They had left the TV on. An obnoxious blonde reporter was talking about some rich boy’s return to the city. _Wait, is that Bruce Wayne? I thought he died._ Jim didn’t care enough to keep watching; he merely shut off the tube and looked around at the freshly painted rooms, and the new kitchen around the corner.

Jim’s face winced as he remembered the price of their new place, but it faded as soon as it came. He straightened his back, and a burst of fire shone within him as the image of Barb and JJ living in slum flashed in his mind.

Gotham was new to them, of course, but not to Jim. To him, Gotham was an old friend from childhood, a companion of eighteen long years. But, 1981’s Gotham was a different place than the Gotham of 2002. But that was a long time ago, before Babs, before Iraq, before Chicago and the kids. The streets were cleaner, the buildings newer, and on the surface, it was a glorious city.

But Jim knew better. He still remembered what the streets could do to a man, hard on his luck. He still remembered the cesspit under the surface. Before they left Chicago, he swore that he’d be damned to the darkest circle of hell before putting his family in a bad neighborhood, especially in a new city. He reaffirmed that swear right there and then and stepped further forward into their apartment.

Jim loosened his tie as he walked through the first floor. The clock on the microwave told him to go to sleep, but he disagreed. He crept through the white kitchen towards the bedroom in the back, his feet moving but making no sound across the tile.

Thankfully, the bedroom door moved as silently as the front door was loud. Jim eyes poured over the room, long ago adjusted to pitch black nights. His little angel was sleeping, not a care in the world, a ball of blankets and dreams. He walked in, delicately kissing her forehead and making sure she was still tucked in bed. Jim smiled, and carefully closed the door behind him.

Barb was growing faster than Jim cared to admit, but no matter how tall she grew to be, or how old she’d become, she would always be his little girl. Next door to her was tiny James Jr., his little warrior. For such a ball of energy, he slept like a bag of rocks. A sheet of light peered through the cracks of his bedroom door; undoubtedly JJ had refused to actually go to bed, and merely pretended until the coast was clear. For all his boasting and sword-rattling, JJ still fell asleep like every defiant toddler. Jim turned off the lights and headed up the stairs to _his_ bedroom.

“James Gordon, of course you’d get home so late.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean? If I’m remembering correctly, _you_ were the one late to our wedding.”

“Shut up, you big oaf, and come to bed.” Babs placed her hand on her cocked hip, smirking down at him. Her frame was dwarfed as Jim came up the stairs and embraced her tightly.  Babs’ nose scrunched and her head tilted up as she caught the scent. “You’ve been smoking again. Jim, I thought we talked about this.” Jim scratched his head sheepishly. “Yeah, I know. It was a long train ride and I thought I could use a pick me up.” She sighed and wrapped her arms more tightly around him.

A smile crept up under Jim’s thick moustache as his lips kissed her forehead. As the two sauntered into their bedroom, Jim thanked himself for checking the kids’ rooms as they undressed each other. _Hate to have little JJ walk in on us._ His train of thought was broken as his wife pulled him into a tight embrace, kissing him deeply and pulling him into bed.

“It’s been so long, James. I _need_ you,” his wife purred, punctuating her point by nipping at his ear lobe playfully. “I’d be happy to satisfy those needs, Mrs. Gordon,” Jim replied, already feeling the last bits of stamina rousing within him. A voice in his ear egged him on as their bodies intertwined. His body had been tired only a short while before, but the moaning and crying of his arms and legs turned into cheers of encouragement as he let out the stress of the day, taking her with a primal fury.

The clock ticked in the corner, time marching on as their reunion was desperately consummated. Flesh met flesh as husband and wife became one once again. A moan split the air, joining the lustful chorus filling the air. Storms wracked Babs’ legs and a shiver crept down her spine as her first climax took her body. He drank in the sight of his love, a grunt passing his lips as she let out another cry. His hand curled over his mouth, stifling the sounds of pleasure.

Jim’s nose was greeted with the sweet scent of the work of art before him as he continued, himself growing closer and closer to climax. His sapphire met her emerald, their eyes locking as their souls twisted together. Wordlessly, he felt a sense of calming heat, the pulse of her heartbeat gripping down on his manhood and meeting his own in their joined hands. He gripped tighter into her, hunching over to get the best angle. The freshest air imaginable filled his lungs, and for a moment he was a man of twenty again, fresh, virile, and devoid of the corruption of his vices. This man had never smoked a day in his life. This man had all the energy in the world, and endless love to give to those deserving of it. Thrust by thrust the pace increased. The room became more unfocused as he felt himself cross his peak. His square jaw biting down hard into itself as Jim spilled his seed into his wife with a final series of stabs, sputtering across the finish line. In that moment, it was their wedding night again.

The very air around them stood perfectly calm as Jim’s body slid off Babs. Their gasps slowed and the racing of their hearts stilled. Youth and vigor fled them as quickly as it came, leaving behind the middle-aged body worn with time and stress. Limbs burned with the slight acidic sting of the aftermath of a good time. For the first time all day, and the first time in months after sex, Jim didn’t crave the bite of nicotine and menthol, nor the haze of an adult drink. He craved his wife, and her warmth was enough to satisfy his appetite in that moment.

Jim’s crisp vision vanished as his glasses clanked on the nightstand. Sleeping sirens awoke as the clock spoke again, announcing the second hour of the morning and beckoning the two to rest. The last thing Jim would remember is the warmth of her body next to his under the sheets, and the smell of her lilac perfume still clinging to her hair. Sleep came quickly to Jim’s exhausted form, his bones and aching muscles finally got their wishes as he drifted off to sleep peacefully, at least initially.

Jim thrashed and turned in bed. His sleep was restless, and he dreamt of nothing. The rectangular alarm clock blared and trumpeted its melody. Beeping red lights blanketed the corner of the room as Jim jolted awake. As his wife stirred, he smashed a fist into the electronic timekeeper. “Jim, what time is it?” She murmured into the pillow. “7,” Jim said, hands fumbling for his pristine round glasses on the nightstand. “Or, at least, I think so. I’m blind as a bat right now.”

“Mhm. Ok honey,” Babs called, rolling back into the huddle of covers. “Have a great day, try not to wake the kids, I’m still tired from last night.” Jim saw himself smirk in the mirror as he adjusted his black tie. _I’ve still got it._

Despite the many protests from his stomach, Jim left the house empty handed. All he could think about as the doors to the metro closed in front of him was a piping hot cup of black coffee and the sinful delight a glazed donut. He silenced his hunger outside the next metro station with a single menthol. Jim swore it would only be the one, and Jim always kept his promises to himself, especially ones about his vices.

He snuffed out his second smoke, halfway done, into the brick of whatever building was next to the Gotham City Police Department’s headquarters. After a single breath, he slid open the doors and went inside.

“Lieutenant Gordan? Right this way,” the receptionist led him to the elevator. Pleasantries were never the most pleasant for Jim; not that he was bad at it. Rather, Jim yearned for the time when he didn’t have to make small talk and could get right to the interesting bits. _What’s so interesting about the weather, anyways?_   

“Lieutenant! Welcome!” The frog of a man stood welcoming outside his office. An outrageous smile buried itself under rolls of fat amidst an oily complexion. “Commissioner Loeb, please, call me Jim,” Gordon said. Loeb’s fingers were sausages as they shook hands, fat and plump like the rest of his body.

Commissioner Loeb hunched over his desk, furiously scribbling his pen over the latest document to grace his attention. He muttered and stammered, licked his lips for the seventh time since the start of the meeting, and flipped the page. “Just one more second, Jim old boy,” he said, holding out his finger in a waiting motion. “Can I offer you a stick of gum while you wait, or a drink?”

“No thank you, that’s quite alright,” Jim declined, his hands up and the same smile he gave the assistant who asked him the same question, minus the gum. Loeb paid it no attention, instead choosing to continue the staring contest with the paper frustrating him so. Jim shifted front, back, and side to side in his chair. No matter how many times he moved, he couldn’t make himself comfortable. _Calm down, patience is important here._

     A sea of papers and wanted posters were spread throughout the commissioner’s office. Grimacing mugshots stared down at him from the tall walls. The cacophony of phones ringing and anxious, muffled conversations made silence an impossibility at headquarters. This was all amplified on the 10th floor – _Loeb’s floor._

     “I’ll cut right to the chase, Jim. The public’s been scared since last September. Damn jihadis have everyone from the media to the public with their panties caught in a twist. We can use someone with your… _experience_ dealing with the fuckers on the force. We’re glad -- _I’m glad_ that you’re here.”

     It took all Gordon had not to let his mouth gape, focusing the anger into a clenched fist. The image of his purple heart medal flashed in his mind, as did the horrors long past. _The screams. My god the screams._ He pushed down those unpleasant memories back into their cell. The deepest confines of his subconscious usually could hold it, but the worst kind of people, people like Loeb, reached right into the abyss and pulled it out with all their might.

     “Well… commissioner, I’m glad to be here,” Jim said through barely gritted teeth. He cleared his throat before continuing. “Is there anything in particular you’d like me to work on?”

“Enthusiastic to start, eh? Glad to see you still have some energy after Chicago,” he interrupted his words with an obnoxious smack of his lips as he gnawed at his latest stick of gum. “I’m assigning you to the 27th precinct. You’ll work under Captain Gillian, with his Special Crimes unit.” He pressed the pager on his desk, barking at the receptionist. “AMY! Get Flass in here, now.”

The door creaked open to reveal over six feet of arrogant youth, handed a handgun and a badge. Flass’ smile reminded Gordan of exactly the wrong kind of people, and he got a sickening inclination in the back of his mind that this wouldn’t be better than Chicago. _No. Knowing my luck, it’ll be worse._ “Well, Jimmy,” Flas’s smirk only grew. He and Loeb shared a look that looked almost sinister. Their faces stood in shadow as they stood directly under the light. “Welcome to the family.”

“Thank you,” the words felt like glass in Gordan’s mouth.

“Your first case,” Loeb said, “involves some nutjob connected with the Red Hood gang.”

“Oh? The one on the news?”

“The very same,” Flass answered the question aimed at Loeb. “It’s some crazy cat lady, a thief of sorts.”


End file.
